


The Story of the Misguided Matchmaker: Or how to get in over your head and into a threesome

by elwinglyre



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Greg Lestrade is a Good Friend, Happy Ending, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Jealous John Watson, John is sorry, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Sherlock Holmes, Threesome, ménage à trois
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-01-24 11:41:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18570745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elwinglyre/pseuds/elwinglyre
Summary: It may not be the best thought out plan, but it's his only plan, or so thinks Gregory Lestrade. All because he's had enough. He's seen John and Sherlock's partnership survive murders and Moriarty, only to have Mary's death dwindle down the fabric of their bond. One doesn't believe he deserves forgiveness, and the other doesn't believe he deserves love.This is the story of how Greg designs to bring them together—all it will take is a bit of self-sacrifice on Greg's part. And what a sweet surrender it is!------------Special thanks to Jobooksandcoffee who is this fandoms number one fanfiction follower and affectionate commenter. This in my personal thank you to her for all of her support--from myself and all of us who write Johnlock. This story is her brainchild. She gave me a lot to work with including a John jealous, a Sherlock sad (and oblivious!), and a Greg who is the worst, best friend ever.Also thanks to my incredible beta, recently-folded, who pushes me to show not tell and finds the errors of my ways (some of them pretty damn funny too).





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jobooksandcoffee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jobooksandcoffee/gifts).



They stood three feet apart. It might as well have been three hundred miles.

Greg clenched his jaw, pushed his hands deep into his pocket, and said nothing. He’d been doing that far too often recently. Every time Sherlock and John arrived at a crime scene, it was agony to watch their mechanical words and actions. It had begun as an unlikely and unusual friendship and had turned into an epic partnership. Even Sally had stepped back and left them alone. Now, he hated to use the term "going through the motions," but there it was: here’s a crime; there’s the evidence; here’s the solution. No more heads together giggling like school girls, no more jokes at Anderson’s expense, no more "Fantastic!" Neither Sherlock nor John seemed to have the energy or inclination to reach out to the other.

It was painful to see them suffer. It reminded him of his painfully recent divorce: the disillusionment, the emotional distancing, the final separation. Greg hated to go through this again, even if it were second hand. He hated more to see this since he had thought theirs was a union that transcended the physical bond.

John was the healer. He should fix it. Couldn’t John open his eyes and see what a mess Sherlock was? Sherlock's once perfectly-tousled hair was greasy and flat; his taut frame and chiseled features were now gaunt and pale. He shook like he needed a fix and possibly did. Dark smudges were splashed under his eyes. Even worse: the way he’d dress. He was no longer the immaculately-attired man who looked as though he'd just stepped off the cover of GQ. Instead, his shirts were wrinkled and stained as though he either slept in them or threw them back in the hamper only to pull them out the next day. Greg doubted the man had had a good night’s sleep since John moved out of 221B. At times he suspected that he'd been using, but John swore to him on his sister’s life that Sherlock wasn’t. No. John wasn’t seeing. Or John didn’t want to see.

He dissn't blame John. He’d been through fucking Hell. Losing his wife and raising a child alone was a bitch of a life. Being a single parent was terrible. He cringed thinking how his wife was now doing exactly this, although it was at least by her own choice. Greg hated being a part-time daddy and John, at least, didn't have to deal with that.

With John, it seemed as though he'd found himself guilty and sentenced himself to life. While Greg knew John blamed Sherlock for so many of his misfortunes, that was in the past. But he had. And Sherlock had accepted that blame upon himself. Neither could see that all this blame was choking them to death. But to what end? A dead wife? Blame upon blame upon blame?

Oh, John pretended it was all fine, but he pretended badly. Sherlock had always said John was a lousy actor. He was. Terrible. But lately, Greg noticed, he'd almost given up all pretense. Nothing worse than a bad actor who’s given up. You have Adam Sandler.

Yeah, beating up your best mate and blaming him for your wife's death were shite things for John to do, but he needed to stop thinking that Sherlock would never forgive him. That man would forgive John anything. _Anything_. The poor sod loved him more than himself, which, to Greg's thinking, was the crux of Sherlock's problem. He was pining after his best friend.

Greg had tried his best to help set John right. He'd told John enough times over pints how Sherlock felt, but John had steadfastly refused to believe him. John couldn't forgive himself, so he thought no one else should—especially Sherlock.

Yet it was Sherlock who was the one really falling to bits. It’s like he was being chipped away from within while John just stood back and watched helplessly. Worse, John often wasn't even there to see how Sherlock was falling apart. On more than one occasion, Greg had overheard Sherlock talking to a John who wasn't even there.

Greg would be damned if he stood by and watched Sherlock keep crumbling to bits until there was nothing left.

So as the crime scene began winding down and John hailed a cab home (not to 221B where he belonged), Greg asked Sherlock to come out for a pint and something to eat. Greg carefully phrased it so that the word "no" wasn't an option. Sherlock stared at Greg as if he'd grown another head, then swallowed and said, "Alright."

\----------------------

Before they entered [The Feathers](https://www.bookatable.co.uk/feathers-green-park-piccadilly-st-jamess-london), Greg and Sherlock stopped to admire Day and Night, Jacob Epstein's allegorical figures outside St. James Station.

"It caused a scandal at the time," Greg said, hands deep in his pockets.

"Much the same scandal revolved around Oscar Wilde's tomb. I visited Père Lachaise Cemetery during my last case in Paris," Sherlock said, gloved hand brushing the wall. "Epstein's memorial to Wilde is exquisite, as is this."

"I didn't know you appreciated art," Greg said.

"As a child, Mummy's idea of a leisurely afternoon in town included a visit to the National Gallery."

"I haven't been in some time. I should go, maybe take my kids. I'm always looking for something to do with them." They began walking toward The Feathers. "This is the place," Greg said, pointing at the door. Sherlock's shoulders sagged as if he were preparing to attend a funeral.

The pub was busy, but Greg had already decided they should sit at the bar instead of a table. He steered them into two tall seats and ordered two [Fuller's](https://www.fullers.co.uk/beer/explore-our-beers/london-porter) with a large order of beer-battered fish and chips to tide them over. Max, their bartender, was busy but amiable. He recognized Sherlock immediately, but didn't ask the usual questions that Sherlock suffered so often from fans. Instead, he ingratiated himself with observations almost as canny as the detective's. In return, by the time the fish and chips had arrived Sherlock had already deduced half of the bar for Max's amusement.

Greg was pleased at how well this was going. While the banter went on, Greg grinned into his ale and Sherlock's shoulders lifted, his chin raised, and smile played on his lips. Given the classic pub food, real ale, and Victorian atmosphere, Greg had crossed his fingers that Sherlock would approve of the place. He'd only been there before on a few occasions, but it wasn't far from New Scotland Yard and had that traditional appeal that Greg hoped Sherlock would appreciate.

"I love to try one of your dark cask ales. Sherlock? Eat some more chips and drink up."

"I've had enough."

"When it comes to a good ale, you should know there's never enough."

"I used to say that about cocaine."

Greg laughed and slapped Sherlock on the back. _The man_ _does_ _have a sense of humor_.

"You're a handsome bloke. You should find someone. Just for the night. I know you say you're not interested, but that's not true. I remember what you were like when I first met you. I know that, for you, there will never be another John Watson, but, hey, maybe a soldier? There's one over there. Don't think I didn't notice you staring at him. You didn't deduce him either, which means you're interested," Greg said. 

"He's interested in you," Max added, winking at Sherlock. "He's been watching your every move since you walked in."

"Yes. I noticed," Sherlock said grimly. "Very astute of you both, but no. I'm not interested."

"He's hot," Max said, wagging his eyebrows.

"Yes, he is. But again, I'm not interested."

"So. You'd do him if you were? Interested?" Greg asked.

"I'd do him," Sherlock confirmed. "But as I have now said repeatedly, I am not interested."

"It's beyond me how you can look like hell and still be so damned attractive," Greg told him, taking a large gulp of beer. "And if you don't mind me saying, you look a lot better than you did an hour ago."

"Is that the beer or a pick up line?" said Max.

"It's the drink," Greg smirked.

"I thought he was your mate, but well...sometimes it's good to keep your options open."

Sherlock stared at Max as if he had two heads.

"You keep drinking like that and Sherlock here will have to drive you home."

Greg slapped Sherlock on the back. "Designated driver tonight. Now that we have that settled, tell me just how you figured out that the suspect had the stolen artwork hidden in that flat in St. George Wharf Tower."

Sherlock related his deductions to Greg and Max, but Greg didn't listen so much as he watched Sherlock's lips move. They were perfect cupid's bows of love. John was an idiot.

"That's amazing," Greg said, doing his best impersonation of the old John Watson. He hoped that Sherlock had enough beer in him not to notice.

It worked. Sherlock actually smiled back at him for millisecond. "It's like the sun came out from behind a cloud, then ducked back under."

"What?" Sherlock said, brow furrowed.

"Your smile," Greg observed.

"It's time I took you home, Lestrade. You are pissed."

"And you are a good friend," Max said, winking.

Greg agreed. He couldn't resist tousling Sherlock's curls. _Mmm...soft._ Yeah, he was definitely pissed, but hadn't realized quite how pissed until Sherlock had to help him off the barstool. After all, barstools were notorious for their stubbornness—often fastening themselves to customers' bums and not letting them leave.

\------------------------------

After three weeks and six cases with Sherlock, evenings at The Feathers had become a habit that they both looked forward to, something that surprised them both greatly. Sherlock said as much. The consulting detective was actually fun after two beers and a cigarette. Greg knew John wouldn't approve of the latter, but he wasn't around, was he? And they both often shared that one in the alley behind Feathers.

One afternoon they even caught a new exhibit at the Museum of London on loan from the Black Museum. Sherlock had already seen the artifacts inside Metropolitan Police Headquarters years before, but he'd been keen to see the series of death masks made from criminals executed at Newcastle prison again. 

Spending all of this time with Sherlock, Greg came to understand John Watson more than ever. Sherlock had a sharp sense of humor and keen sense of moral compass. He'd never realized. Being with Sherlock at Feathers or a museum was one thing, but it was when they were both on cases that he saw what made Sherlock Holmes both a great man and a good one.

On two of the cases, Sherlock hadn't even brought John in for help. Instead, Sherlock had texted Greg. Greg hadn't expected to go chasing the madman about during his off time, but it was exhilarating to be on the streets of London instead of watching bad telly. The fact that the man was bloody gorgeous was just extra. Those tight shirts and trousers begged for mercy, and at times, Greg did too. He had to keep reminding himself why he was there and what his ultimate purpose was. That was the night when Greg was working on case number seven. And that was the night that John Watson finally caught on.

"It's good to see you're starting to take better care of yourself," John observed.

"All due to the attentions of my new minder," Sherlock said. "At least, that's what Donovan says."

"Minder?" John repeated.

Greg laughed. He'd become that. Sort of. He'd like to think that spending time with Sherlock had helped himself as well. Greg thrust his hands deep into his coat pockets and smiled up into London's night sky, waiting for John to start to put it all together.

"Need a lift to The Feathers?" Greg offered. Watson had needed another nudge after all.

"I would," Sherlock said, turning his back to John. If Greg didn't know that Sherlock was so oblivious, he'd swear the man was playing along.

John's mouth fell open, staring bullet holes into Sherlock's back.

"Thank you, Greg." Sherlock practically bowed to him.

Greg beamed back at the detective only to witness John clenching his jaws over Sherlock's shoulder. Sweet success.

"What?" John stopped and grabbed Sherlock's sleeve, spinning him around. "The Feathers? Isn't that a pub?"

Sherlock sighed. "Of course it is. Do keep up."

"And you remembered Greg's name, then thanked him?" John's voice rose. Greg knew that was a good sign. His voice always got higher when he was angry.

"It's what people do," Sherlock snapped. "You've reminded me of that often enough."

"You're welcome to join us," Greg said, hoping that's exactly what John would do.

"I suppose," John said. "If I'm not intruding." The edge of bitterness in his voice did not go unnoticed—even to Sherlock, who shot him an odd look.

"Is there something wrong?" Sherlock asked.

"No," John said, shortly.

Sherlock nodded, then turned. He was already half the way to Greg's patrol car without waiting for either of them.

"I hope there isn't anything wrong," Greg added. "You could use a night out. Come with us."

John nodded and followed Greg to where he hopped into the driver's seat of his unmarked patrol car. John stood next to the car, mouth agape. Sherlock was already seated on the passenger's side.John hesitated, then took the handle and opened the backdoor. As he flopped down in the backseat, he shook his head and stared at the back of their heads.

Greg turned around in his seat to acknowledge John. "Looks you're under arrest," Greg joked.

"I do so hope it is up to me to interrogate him," Sherlock added. "I can play bad copper, and you the good."

"Like the other night? That was fun."

"Other night?" John asked. "You were on a case the other night?"

Greg noted from the slighted tone that the unspoken words from John's mouth were "without me."

"I didn't want to bother you," Sherlock said. "What with Rosie having a fever."

"Thank you." That's John's intention, but Greg notes that John's tone wasn't thankful in the least. He was also staring right at Greg.

"I've been trying to think of other people's needs," Sherlock continued. "Greg has been a great help with that, especially at crime scenes. What were those choice words of advice you gave me, Greg? If you can't say anything nice..."

"Don't say anything at all," John finished for him.

"Greg shared that wisdom with you too I see."

"No, Sherlock, that's an old aphorism," Greg said, punching Sherlock in the shoulder.

"Really?" Sherlock said, unconvincingly punching Greg's shoulder back.

\----------------------------

The problem with well-intentioned plans is that they so often go awry. The more time Greg spent with Sherlock, the more he'd truly begun to feel an attachment he hadn't anticipated. He'd been alone for so long that he'd forgotten what it was like to have a good mate to pal around with. It felt, well, nice.

"I'll get us a table if you could hunt us up a few pints," John said.

"We usually sit at the bar," Sherlock said, pointing. "On the stools there."

"Usually?" John said, perplexed.

"We talk to Max," Sherlock said. "Greg said nurturing a relationship with the bartender helps with proper tavern socialization skills."

"Max?" John frowned.

"There he is. You'll get to meet him. He tends bar on Friday nights." Sherlock pointed to Max, who waved.

Sherlock waved back. Greg smiled to himself as he watched John's eyes go wide.

Greg pulled on Sherlock's sleeve. "There's three seats."

They sat, and Greg positioned himself in the middle with the two of them on either side. _Perfect._

Greg held up three fingers at Max who brought the first round.

"Tab?" Max asked.

"No, I'll pay this round," Sherlock insisted.

"So," John said, staring into his beer, "you've been out on more than one case together."

Greg leaned over toward John. "I really appreciate your job as a handler, John. How did you ever get him to eat? I haven't mastered that one yet. He'll eat some food, but he mostly'll just peck at it."

John squinted. He was irritated. Good, Greg thought: he was worried.

John sighed. "Usually I just threatened him. Blackmail works too. And then there's always bribery with Mrs. Hudson's biscuits."

"I'll take that under advisement," Greg said, "but he gets stubborn on a case."

"Quit talking about me. I'm right here. I can hear you." Sherlock frowned.

"We know," Greg said. "But we don't care. We want you healthy and that means taking in more sustenance than what keeps a gnat alive."

"Hilarious," Sherlock said.

Greg patted Sherlock's back, leaving his left palm resting in the middle. John stared daggers at it, but when Sherlock's eyes slanted in John's direction, John pretended instead to stare at what was over Sherlock's shoulder.

"Max, I want you to meet my good friend, John Watson," Sherlock said.

"You're the famous Doctor John Watson. I'm happy to meet you."

"John, this is Maxwell Silver," Sherlock said, "and please refrain from jokes about that Beatles song, 'Maxwell's Silver Hammer.' The murder weapon was silver, and it was not the last name of the murderer." Sherlock frowned in annoyance.

"I still don't think he gets it," Max said, laughing. "That never gets old. He says it every single time he introduces me."

"Just how many people have you introduced to him?"

"Molly, Mike, and Sally," Sherlock said. "But not Anderson."

"Sally? Am I living in a parallel universe? How long have you been coming here?" John asked. 

Sherlock mobile began to ring. "After each case for the last few..." Sherlock stopped, answering the mobile. "Hello? Yes..." he nodded to John and Greg. "It's Mrs. Hudson. She never calls unless it's something pressing. I need to take this. I'm going somewhere quieter. Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock walked to the back of the pub near the loos.

"You two seem close," John observed.

"Aye. You don't mind, do you?" Greg asked.

"No, not at all. It's good to see Sherlock making friends, being normal. I'm surprised is all."

"I'm glad you said that." Greg hoped that it was enough to bait him. Judging by the intensity with which John gazed into his dark ale, it was. "I always thought there might be something between the two of you." He left the words hanging, waiting for John to tell him if he were right or wrong, but John said nothing at first. After a painful pause, he spoke.

"No, nothing between us other than friendship. Maybe at one time there could have been, but that's all behind us. Just good mates now." He nodded his head, once, firmly.

Greg sighed dramatically in relief—at least, he hoped John would read it that way. "That's good."

A worried frown crossed John's face.

Sherlock returned, throwing the tails of his coat out dramatically as he sat down. "That was curious," he said slowly. "I returned Mrs. Hudson's call and it was a cake emergency, of all things. She wanted to know what flavor I wanted."

"I told her we needed to work together to put a few more pounds on you," Greg said. "Double chocolate, right?"

"Conspiring with Mrs. Hudson? At least you got the flavour correct."

"Isn't this a bit late at night for cake baking?" John asked. 

"She said she's having trouble sleeping lately. I'm afraid it's her arthritis acting up."

"She says the soothers aren't working as well for her as in the past," Greg added.

John tipped his pint of ale to his lips, taking three big swallows and emptying the glass before setting it back down with a thud.

Greg hoped he'd given John plenty to think about tonight.


	2. Chapter 2

On the ride back home, John watched the two of them in the front seat. Each time Greg touched Sherlock, John felt his insides knot up. What was happening between them? Greg had stepped into the role of Sherlock's best friend, but from what Lestrade had said, it almost seemed as if something more might be happening.

John should be happy for Sherlock. Everyone should have that special someone. Sherlock should. It's just...it shouldn't be Greg. It should have been him.

But it was too late for that. 

His chance had been lost when he beat Sherlock senseless, not to mention with that horrid letter he'd made Molly give him. John recalled the cruel words of blame inside the note: how he hated Sherlock and wished it had been Sherlock who'd died instead of Mary. It wasn't true. Not a word of it. But he could never wipe away the memory of those words from Sherlock's mind or his own.

His chance was long gone. He'd thrown it away time and again. He could have changed things. He'd had so many opportunities, but he'd turned his back instead. He knew how Sherlock felt about him. It had taken him long enough to realize, but even after he did, he'd never acted on it. Refused to acknowledge it at his wedding. He'd refused to see it at the airfield. He'd pretended not to know. He was a coward. He'd refused to see it.

And he'd hurt Sherlock. Beyond repair. At least beyond his repair, if maybe not Lestrade's. 

Yes. He should step back. Let what might happen, happen between his friends. He should be happy for them. Even if he wasn't. As he watched from the backseat while Greg's hand rubbed Sherlock's back, he had to admit to himself that he wasn't really happy for them. He was miserable.

As he got out and watched the patrol car drive off, it felt final. He limped away, head bowed.

\-----------------------

"Why John! It's so nice to see you. Come in, come in," Mrs. Hudson said, scurring backward into her flat and pulling John by the arm with her. "Come and share a cuppa with me. It's been too long. How is Rosie?"

"Fine. Growing like a weed and talking constantly. She's a real handful."

"You need to bring her by for a visit soon." She pointed to her couch. "Take a seat, and I'll make us that cuppa. And I made some fresh biscuits—the ones with the strawberry jam that you like."

"That would be wonderful, thank you." He watched as Mrs. Hudson disappeared into the kitchen. "I hear you're having some trouble with your arthritis," he called after her.

"Yes," she called back from the kitchen. "It keeps me up some nights."

John got up and walked into the kitchen. As she poured and plated the biscuits, John felt her steady gaze upon him.

"Maybe you should think about taking some sort of anti-infamatory meds," John suggested.

"I am, dear. And how are you sleeping? You look tired. Rosie keeping you up nights?"

"Yeah, Rosie runs me ragged." It was a lie and Mrs. Hudson knew it at once. He didn't want to talk about his PTSD, or how he couldn't sleep through the night without waking and screaming, dreaming about Sherlock and Mary being shot. How they'd swap places in his dreams. How he'd relive the those cruel words he said to Sherlock, and how he'd kicked his best friend when he was down.

"You've not been around much. I've missed you. So has Sherlock."

"Really? I hear that Greg and Sherlock have been spending time together...on cases." He picked up the tray to carry it out to the living room, trying his best to control the trembling in his hand.

"Oh, they're as thick as thieves lately. Gregory comes by, watches a bit of telly. It's really rather sweet to see. I hope you're not still carrying a torch for Sherlock. It seems he's finally moving on."

John's shoulder cramped, and he set the tray down on the coffee table. He sat down and Mrs. Hudson sat down beside him and picked up her tea. John rolled his shoulder before picking up his. Mrs. Hudson gazed over her cup, all-knowing.

The tea was hot and John was drinking it too fast. The cup rattled as he sat it back down.

"I know you always thought there was something between us, but there never was."

Mrs. Hudson poured more tea into his cup and laughed. "Oh John, you still believe that?"

John cleared his throat, picked up the tea again, and stared at her. "I know it."

She shook her head at him in disappointment and pressed her lips tightly together, then sighed in resignation.

"I'm glad you're past all of that. Gregory has been wonderful for Sherlock. Better yet, Sherlock is no longer wandering about at all hours, shooting at the wall or up playing sad music on his violin. It's as if the dark cloud hanging over him has finally lifted. Why just the other evening..."

John closed his eyes and listened. He heard all about them. She told him all of it. How they came back late at night from cases and ate takeout together. How they'd helped each other up the stairs after one too many at The Feathers. How they giggled on the couch together eating popcorn and watching James Bond movies.

John had to leave. He couldn't listen to any more.

\--------------------------

He couldn't resist it after visiting Mrs. Hudson and being subjected to hours of stories about how chummy "Gregory" and Sherlock had grown. John began using his old key to 221B and visiting, often bringing Rosie with him. Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson loved having Rosie around and Greg enjoyed her as well. That was the rub. Greg was always there. That and Greg's fathering skills seemed effortless to John. He kissed boo-boos and wiped sniffles away with a charm that made John's pats on Rosie's head seem inadequate. Sherlock played hide-and-seek with Greg and Rosie. The bursts of giggles and screeches from the two brought life to Sherlock's eyes and a flush to his cheeks.

John was happy. Really, he was. And yes, John had to admit, Sherlock was happy. Rosie and Greg had his heart.

That's why he was there today. A case, but also to visit. Later as they settled down, Sherlock read "The Three Pigs." His wolf was terrifying and Rosie's eyes were huge as she hugged her stuffed bear to her chest when Sherlock "huffed and puffed and blew the house down." But Sherlock's reassuring kiss to her forehead brought a smile to Rosie lips, and Rosie's eyes shone into Sherlock's own smiling face. She was happy that she was spending time again with Sherlock, whom she loved.

With the three pigs safe in their home, Sherlock tucked the book away and carried her downstairs to Mrs. Hudson for her afternoon nap. 

It was time to go out on a case again. All three of them. Over the last few weeks, John had insisted on being included. And Greg was there with them. Always there. John watched from the sidelines, feeling like an outsider.

As he trailed behind them down Baker Street, John had to admit to himself that Greg was a handsome man and what Mrs. Hudson called "a good catch." What bothered John most was that it wasn't just Sherlock who looked happy. No. Greg glowed. Even now as he motioned for John to keep up, he had that flashing white grin. Since Greg's divorce, John hadn't seen that smile except after a few pints. Now, he flashed that same sparkling grin at Sherlock.

Per usual Sherlock had been closed-mouthed about where they were going when John had asked.

The upside of having Greg on a case was that there was no calling for a cab. Unfortunately, John was once again alone in the back seat.

"We're going to the London Aquatics Centre." But it was not Sherlock's usual order. It was Sherlock turning around in the seat to explain to John their plans. "Although the body is no longer present, Greg made certain that no one has been in or out of the crime scene." Sherlock turned back to look at Greg, raising his eyebrow in question. Greg responded with a nod.

 _What are they both on about?_ John wondered. Then it slammed into him like a brickwall. Greg had _told_ Sherlock to include John more. He was worried about John being left out. That had to be it. Dammit. The last thing he needed was their pity.

"It's closed for the evening," Greg added to John, "but we'll go in through the service entrance and get a look at the crime scene, see if my men missed anything."

"Are you looking for anything in particular?" John asked, resigned to his fate of still being the third wheel even if the other two were holding up the cart for him.

"I'll know it when I see it," Sherlock snapped.

"Of course you bloody will." John crossed his arms and stared out the window.

John heard a slap. Did Greg just smack Sherlock in the leg?

"That is..." Sherlock said sheepishly. He completely turned around in his seat, facing John. "I need to check the integrity of the scene near the pool, but also that of the locker room. I have reason to suspect both the victim and the murderer began their real argument there. The incident at the pool was merely a ruse on the killer's part to deflect notice. And I do believe this was not an accident but premeditated."

"There were over twenty witnesses who saw him push the man in jest. Everyone said they were merely joking around. The man fell, hit his head, and died...a freak accident. Sure the bloke shouldn't have pushed him, but how could he know the man would fall, hit his head, and die?" Greg asked.

"How indeed unless..."

"Unless what?" John asked, but the car had stopped and Sherlock had leapt out and dashed toward the service door. The door banged shut behind him as John and Greg followed. Once inside, they saw Sherlock duck through the doors to the pool. John entered the pool area first. There stood Sherlock. Feet apart. Staring. John began to shake. Immediately he felt the weight of that damned Semtex vest and heard Moriarty's maniacal laughter. 

Greg rested his hand in the middle of John's back. "You okay? John?"

Sherlock spun around, eyes wide, taking in John. "John?" he stepped forward.

John looked down at himself and patted his chest frantically to make sure. Nothing was there.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," John said and waved them off. 

Sherlock blinked and shook his head in disbelief. "I believe we may find what we need in these hampers." He pointed to them, but John saw the concern in his eyes as he looked at John. "CarefuI," he motioned to Greg, "I expect there could be some sort of harmful drug about, possibly in a syringe." 

Greg snapped on gloves and began bagging the potential evidence from the hamper.

"Go," John said to Greg, waving him off. "Just give me a moment." He took three deep breaths and shook his arms out. Better.

"John. What drugs could cause a sudden brain aneurysm?" Sherlock asked.

"Cocaine. Methamphetamine. There are others, but they are less likely to be misdiagnosed as a brain injury. Toxicology would pick those up, though. You know that."

"Yes. Yes. Nothing undetectable then?"

"Not that I know of."

"What else could cause death from a fall? What about past injuries?"

"A past brain injury could compound a new one, and it might be overlooked especially in an accidental fall like this where people wouldn't be looking for those things. But the man who pushed him would have to have known about the past injury and anticipated how the bloke would fall. That's a lot to plan and execute precisely."

"But not impossible." Sherlock hopped around excitedly before shouting: "Locker room!" He raced past a stunned John and Greg, who chased behind.

Inside the locker room, Sherlock opened and closed lockers, rumaging through them. Then his eyes rested on one locker in particular.He opened it and reached inside, smiling at both of them as he did. "What prescriptions might one procure from the chemist to treat traumatic brain injury?" he said in sing-song satisfaction.

"Diuretics. Anti-seizure meds," John answered.

In his large hand, Sherlock held two bottles of meds. "What does one say at such an occasion? 'Battleship!'"

"No, Sherlock," Greg said, stifling a laugh. "That's the wrong game. You mean Bingo."

"You played Bingo and Battleship with Greg?"

\---------------------

Sherlock insisted on going to the suspect's flat where, upon questioning, the suspect told them that he had to use the loo and climbed out the window and up to the roof.

Having anticipated the move, Sherlock ran up the stairs to the roof where he tackled the man by the ankles, leaving Greg to snap on the handcuffs. They pulled him along down the stairs and out to the street where John held the door to the patrol car.

He rode in the backseat with the perp all the way to the station.

"You used to be a lot quicker with those handcuffs," Sherlock said.

Greg actually smiled at the insult. "I used to have a lot less grey hair too. Then I met you."

John almost wished they wouldn't insult each other—it was too much like flirting. In fact, that's exactly what they were doing. John knew it well—he used to do it with Sherlock Holmes often enough.

He missed it.

Even after an afternoon of chasing criminals over the rooftops of London, Sherlock still had enough energy to chase Rosie around Mrs. Hudson's flat. Greg sat on the couch with that damnable smile of his. Sherlock jumped over the couch and ducked down, then played peek-a-boo with Rosie over the top, making her laugh in big hiccups.

"That's enough Sherly. You're going to make her wet herself."

John blinked. "Sherly? What the hell is that?"

"It's my nickname," Sherlock explained to John as if he was the one who was daft. "It's much better than arsehole or freak or any of the other ones I've had over the years. This one is an endearment of sorts. That's what Greg called it."

"Um, yeah?" John blinked again.

Sherlock's mobile began to ring. That was something else that was different. He'd changed the ringtone on his mobile. What was going on in the world?

"You okay?" Greg asked John after Sherlock jumped up to get his mobile from the bedroom.

John honestly didn't know how to answer that. He wasn't okay with this. Not at all.

"Want to go out for a pint?" Greg asked.

Frankly, John wasn't sure. There was time he wouldn't have hesitated. He guessed it was best to find out where he stood. "Yeah. A pint would be good."

"Just let me tell Sherlock."

 _Tell Sherlock_? _As if Greg has to let his significant other know where he's going?_

Sherlock walked them both to the door. When John got to the bottom of the stairs, he turned to see Sherlock standing at the top rubbing the scar over his heart. _I did that,_ John thought. _Mary shot him because of me._

Maybe Greg was the best one for Sherlock. Maybe he should step away. 

No one spoke as they walked around the corner to the pub.


	3. Chapter 3

It was working too well. So well that Greg was starting to believe the ruse. He reminded himself that he was doing this to bring John and Sherlock together. Unfortunately, it was tearing Greg apart in the process. Through these last weeks, Greg had learned two important things about himself: he was lonely and that he genuinely enjoyed Sherlock's company.

As he and John splashed through the alley to the pub, Greg knew he needed to keep uppermost in his mind his true purpose: to bring John and Sherlock together, not to cure his own loneliness.

The rain was tapering off. Not enough to get soaked, but enough to make John's joints ache. He was limping, too.

John hung his head for most of the way. That was not the ever-alert Captain John Watson that Greg knew. John acted as if he were going to a dentist instead of to have a pint with a close friend. Greg needed to set this right. Greg's plan to nudge at John's jealous side may have gotten John and Rosie back to visiting Baker Street, but that's as far as it had gone. Greg thought he'd made headway, especially when John had asked to go for a pint. But now, it seemed, John was back to moping about. He was miles away from moving back into Baker Street where he belonged.

This was the tavern closest to Baker Street. Greg pushed open the door with John on his heels. Although it was hidden down a back alley, people managed to wander off the street and find it—but most of them were regulars. People laughed, slapped each other's backs, watched football on the telly as the opening guitar riff of Bush's "Machine Head" played in the background. Stepping inside this pub was like stepping back in time for Greg. They took a seat not two tables from where his dad had sat Greg down and bought him his very first pint. In fact, he and John had sat at this very table many times before.

"My Dad always said the wooden-slat interior made him feel a lot like he was in the belly of a whale," Greg said to John.

"You've said that before," John nodded. "I get it. I feel a bit like Jonah in here. The ceiling is so low in places that even I need to duck. I can't stomach the booths. I feel trapped like I'm crawling inside a cave."

"It's nice and private for dates. Used to bring Jayne here when we first met. That's where we sat over there." Greg pointed to the corner of the pub.

"Is that where you sit with Sherlock?" John said, then sighed. "I'm sorry, Greg. That wasn't how I wanted this to go. It's just that I'm having a hard time with all this."

"I wondered if that might be the case."

John leaned back in his seat as the waiter came for their orders. John bought the first round.

"I thought you were alright with it. Me with Sherlock."

"Sorry?" John said. "What exactly do you mean when you say 'with Sherlock'? You don't mean you're..."

"No, not that. Not, sex. Not that I wouldn't mind it. But Sherlock? That seems to be the last thing on his mind. I don't know if he's ever had sex, although I suppose it's possible," Greg said. "I know you think he has. I remembered him 'dating' a few times when he started hanging around crime scenes. But he said emotional attachments were too distracting and that people get too attached. I assumed that with his drug history, he might have, you know, but lately I think more and more that he's never actually..."

"I never asked him outright about sex, but I always assumed he'd never lower himself to something so ordinary. But as for emotional attachment, he has a heart even if he insists he doesn't."

"If you want me to step back, I will, gladly, because the person Sherlock really wants isn't me. It's you. It's always been you. You're an idiot if you don't see that. But if you won't do anything to change the situation, I'll be more than happy to step in. He's a good man. Damn beautiful man. Hot, even."

"That's enough, Greg."

"So is that a 'step back'?"

"That's an 'I'm confused.""

"If you'll pardon me, I'm thinking you've been too confused for too long. That's the problem with this whole situation. Sherlock knows what he wants. He's known for a long time."

"That's not true."

"Are you daft, mate? We're you even at your own wedding? The man was beside himself. The best man's speech was a declaration of love. Even your bride knew it. Can you really be that much of a bloody idiot?"

"You're wrong. I know him better than anyone. He doesn't have those feelings for me. He cares, yes but..."

"You're the one who's wrong. About a lot of things."

"I've done unforgivable things to him. It's a wonder he even lets me anywhere near him after I beat him like I did. I just..."

"John. Stop. He's forgiven you. Frankly, I don't think he ever blamed you at all. In his mind, he thinks he deserved it all. You and I know that's not even close to true, but you also know there's no telling the man what he should think once his mind's been made up. That's true of you, too. You need to forgive yourself, first, and Sherlock needs to believe he's worthy. I think he's beginning to believe. Now it's up to you."

"I can't. I just can't. What I did. I can't bring myself to believe he'd ever really trust me again. I don't want him to trust me again. I don't trust myself."

"You've been back in counseling. You're working on it."

"I don't date. I haven't since Mary. I don't want to subject anyone else a halfway relationship again."

"So that's it then?"

"I'm no good for him. As much as it hurts me to see him with you, he should have the opportunity for companionship in his life. I just can't be the one to give it to him."

John and Greg drank and ignored each other for another half hour before heading home. Greg was nearly to his flat when Sherlock texted him.

\-------------------

Greg opened the door of 221B to find Sherlock lying on the couch and throwing knives at the smiley face on the wall.

"I know why you went for a pint with John," Sherlock said, taking aim and hitting the smiling face's mouth.

Greg hesitated at the arm of the couch, looking down at Sherlock. His robe was half open, exposing a creamy white bare chest covered with goosebumps. His legs were splayed out in front of him with his bare feet gracing the coffee table.

"Last knife. Would you be so kind as to retrieve them from the wall? I believe I'd like to try again. This time I'll aim for the eyes."

Greg took long, slow steps up to the wall and tugged the five knives out one-by-one. "Thinking of me or John while you're throwing them?"

"Both."

"Maybe I shouldn't give them back to you since one of the real targets has returned."

"Your discussion centered around John and me in the light of your recent attentions. I have noticed. I'm not completely inept at reading social cues."

"Could have fooled me." Greg leaned over to put the knives on the coffee table.

Sherlock slid his legs off the table and his bare feet slapped against the floor.

"If it means anything to you, I've really enjoyed spending time with you," Greg said.

"I know you have. I've also enjoyed our time together." Sherlock sat up straight as Greg took a seat beside him.

"What finally gave me away?" Greg asked.

"I'd wondered from the beginning, but then you started calling me Sherly. When I explained it to John, I realized how ridiculous it sounded." Sherlock sighed. "I'm not good at this."

"Apparently I'm shite at it also."

"You don't have to say a word about what John said to you. I know."

"You do. What did he say if you're so damned sure?"

"That there is no way he can forgive himself. That he doesn't understand how I could ever trust him again. That he isn't interested in... _that_ with _me_. He never really was. He's not gay."

"You're completely correct, except for the part about not being interested or being gay."

"At least he's finally admitted that much to himself."

"Yeah. At least that," Greg said. "He also gave us his blessing."

"Blessing? For what?"

"For this..." Greg's hand cupped Sherlock's chin. He gently turned Sherlock's face until their foreheads brushed together. Greg pressed his lips to Sherlock's and waited. Sherlock moaned. It was all over for Greg then. His mouth opened as did Sherlock's. Greg marveled how wonderful his own tongue felt as it swept the inside Sherlock's lovely mouth. Sherlock teased and twirled his tongue around Greg's and moaned all the louder. It was a fucking miracle.

Sherlock finally pulled back with a gasp. "That was pleasurable."

Greg couldn't speak. He nodded in affirmative, then kissed Sherlock again, this time pushing him flat to the couch. He hoped he wasn't going too fast.

He was. Sherlock pushed back, and Greg landed half on the coffee table and half on the floor.

"I'm sorry!" Sherlock shouted and immediately reached for Greg's hand and pulled him back up on the couch. They almost fit, spooning together on their sides. "I was startled. I've never. I mean..."

"I understand," Greg said. "How about we take this slow. We kiss goodnight, and I go home. Tomorrow, we can see where else this goes, yeah?"

"What if you don't go? What if you just kiss, but not goodnight? I want you to stay. Not for sex. Just to sleep. We can sleep together."

Greg laughed. "I always thought I might end up in a relationship with a Holmes, but it was..."

"Stop there," Sherlock said, sitting up and almost knocking Greg to the floor again. "If I'm ever to have any type of relationship with you, you are never to mention him again. Ever."

"Understood." Greg was balancing on the edge, hand on the floor, holding him in place. "Couch you said? It's not very comfortable. I don't think we'll fit."

"In my bed."

"In your bed." Greg held his breath. He might not live through this.

"Yes, in my bed. I said that. Why must I always repeat myself?"

"You don't. I'm there. In your bed. Just to be sure—not repeating myself. Kissing is fine, just no sex."

"Yes."

Greg climbed off the couch and gave Sherlock a hand up. "Just checking further...what about clothes?"

"I don't wear clothes to bed."

"Right then. No clothes. In bed. No sex. But kissing."

Sherlock smiled at him. If Greg didn't know better, it was almost wicked...

Seeing Sherlock divest himself of his robes and low-slung pajama bottoms was the cap on Greg's week. Make that month. No, year. Oh, who was he kidding? Lifetime. That expanse of creamy, lush skin made Greg want to throw Sherlock down on the bed and fuck him sideways.

But no. Kiss. Yes. Kiss. Must kiss only.

And kiss they did. A lot. And without clothes, which proved more delicious than any desert Greg had ever devoured, including that hot brunette meter maid with the whipped cream and cherries...

Rubbing against Sherlock elicited positively pornographic moans from deep within him. It was the icing on the cake to hear the man's baritone spill out blissful ahhs and ohs. When Greg kissed and nipped on his long, enticing neck, Sherlock actually began to hum in wonder. 

HIs cock was what surprised Greg most of all. Besides being a piece of art in itself, he was hard and leaking on the Italian sheets. He was more than interested in Greg's erection with an "accidental" brush here and there. They were both needy, yet Sherlock kept some distance between them, even if it was hair-thin at times. Greg wanted to touch, but he knew Sherlock had said he wasn't ready.

Then during one long, wet, tongue thrusting kiss, Sherlock came. It was a marvel to witness. Greg felt honored that Sherlock had trusted him.

He immediately fell asleep afterward. Greg went to the bathroom and wanked off. It was easy enough when thinking about Sherlock's lips, and how they might feel wrapped around him.

He returned to the bed and covered them both. Sherlock was lightly snoring as Greg drifted off.

The loud bang woke them. Sherlock sat straight up in bed. The bedroom door was wide open.

"John," was what Sherlock called out as he lept from bed, taking the sheets with him.

Greg jumped up after him, grabbing his pants and shirt, hopping out of the room as he tried to dress. "Wait! Not in the street! You've only got a sheet on!"


	4. Chapter 4

He's not going to cry.

Why did he even come?

He'd gone back home and rethought what Greg had told him last night at the pub. Maybe there was a chance for them. Greg had seemed to believe that Sherlock still cared and actually wanted him. John had decided he'd go to Sherlock and make it right, baring his soul of all he did wrong, how deeply sorry he was: clear the air. Maybe they could patch up their friendship. Maybe they could make a go of something more. After all, they'd never openly spoken about it, but he'd aways felt it was there, at least on his part. Isn't that what Ella had suggested he do all along?

He'd walked in. The door was open to Sherlock's bedroom. Nothing unusual about that. But why were Greg's clothes on the floor? John eyes turned to the bed. There was Greg with Sherlock. Naked.

He couldn't breathe. He couldn't speak. But he could run. As he tore through the living room, Sherlock's deep voice called to him from behind. He blinked down the stairs. No way he was looking back. As John took the first step, his leg buckled. Bloody leg, bloody Sherlock, bloody falling.

And then it went black.

\------------------

He woke to a cool flannel across his forehead and the sound of Greg whispering to Sherlock in the kitchen. His head pounded, but it still only took seconds to recall what happened and why. Now he wouldn't be able to escape from this mess—although at least he was on the couch and not in Sherlock's bed. 

"You're awake," Greg said sheepishly. "I need to explain."

John closed his eyes. "Why do you need to explain anything to me? There's nothing to explain. I just was surprised." John groaned. This was his fault. They'd never be in this spot if John had manned up and told Sherlock how he'd felt years ago. Now it was obvious that John had let this happen by giving his blessing to Greg, and then he'd hurt him to the core.

"Surprised is not what you were," Sherlock said, crossing his arms. "You didn't hit your head. You don't have a concussion. Your leg gave out, you slid down on your back, and then you blacked out when you looked up at me."

"Why does my head hurt then?"

"The very question I asked when you woke up moaning not more than ten minutes ago and I gave you the flannel."

"You're saying what then?"

John looked away, down at a row of knives carefully lined up on the coffee table. He would wonder why they were there, but this is bloody Sherlock Holmes who evidently does crazy things such as fucking Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade.

"The trauma of seeing us together brought back the psychosomatic symptoms in your leg. This caused you to fall and then black out from the shock when faced with me looming above you. More simply, you were highly traumatized by what you witnessed."

Sherlock continued in high-speed deduction mode, his brain putting together the clues far in advance of his emotional realization of what he was saying. "For this occur, you clearly had an extreme fight-or-flight reaction which never would have happened unless you had a strong emotional attachment to one of us. That one was not Greg. Additonally, you've seen me wrapped in a sheet far too many times for that to be upsetting to you."

"And your genius brain came up with that?" Greg sounded off as he stepped back from the couch. "Mrs. Hudson and my entire department could have told you that."

"I don't understand."

"That's usually the problem," Sherlock said.

"You skinned your back up, mate," Greg said. "No head injury. That's all that happened."

John suppressed another moan. Maybe he understood too well. Greg was better for Sherlock. Their relationship had always been healthy. Greg never struck or belittled Sherlock. In fact, he'd protected him time and again. But John, he'd hurt Sherlock. More importantly, he'd never offered Sherlock anything except friendship. It's clear that Sherlock must need something more, or he wouldn't have ended up in bed with Greg. In all the years John had lived with Sherlock, it had never happened. Not even a kiss.

Sherlock continued talking, most of which John failed to follow until the final words: "It's evident that you must care for me deeply if this was your reaction."

Of course I do, John thought, but that wasn't the real problem. That was John's failure to act on his feelings. He was too late. He knew that. Why had he even thought that coming here was a good idea? Sherlock had found what he needed, and it was from someone else. Someone who wanted Sherlock equally in return. Greg. They were John's friends. Wan't it up to him to do the right thing in all this?

"I think I should leave you two to talk," Greg said to Sherlock sadly. "We'll speak later."

One look at Greg before he closed the door told John just how much Greg had come to care for Sherlock. Greg's sad gait and bowed head made John even more certain of his decision to step away. Maybe if he hadn't been blind to the possibility that Greg could fall in love with Sherlock this wouldn't have happened.

And how did Sherlock feel in return?

He'd always known that Sherlock was never a sociopath—that entire persona was a protective armor. But he'd let that armor down now. He was exposed. His shoulders slumped and his feet tapped nervously; sorrow creased his brow, and the corners of his lips fell in sadness. If those people who believed his sociopath claim could see the distress in Sherlock's eyes as Greg left, they would have to admit that he felt remorse, know that he understood how his actions hurt others.

He'd always had a big heart even if he liked to hide it from the world. He could love. Why had John refused to acknowledge this?John witnessed it now with Greg.

"I've hurt him. I never wanted that," Sherlock said as he turned to face John on the couch, his face riddled with sorrow for his friends. Today he wasn't hiding it from John.

The old John would have been angry at the two of them in bed together and not understood his reaction. That John would have lashed out at Sherlock later for something petty and he'd have told himself that Sherlock's behavior had caused his anger. That the eyeballs in the crisper or nicking his laptop or eating the last of the biscuits were the reason for his irritation. Not the big things like asking Janine to marry him or texting The Woman or not saying what he'd really intended on the tarmac.

This new John was hurt, but the new John also understood himself—and Sherlock—much better. It occurred to John that Greg and Sherlock were hurting as much as he, albeit for different reasons. Maybe that's what had drawn them together. In the end, this was his fault for being such a fool and letting it come this far. It was his responsibility to have backed away honorably instead of forcing Greg to back off. He needed to change that.

He heard the sound of the street door closing behind Greg, and they were alone.

"Where's Rosie?" Sherlock asked, handing John the glass of water and two tablets of paracetamol he'd brought in while John was lost in thought.

"She's with Molly." He sat up slowly, still dizzy. He carefully took the glass from Sherlock's hand. "This is a switch—you giving me meds."

John thought of other things that were a switch. John thought about all the women he dated, never once thinking how it might have hurt Sherlock to see him with them. He considered his past reactions to Janine and The Woman. Now Greg was in the same category. He had always been jealous. Of course he loved Sherlock. He always has.

Could he stand by and watch Sherlock be with someone else and still be a friend to him as Sherlock had done for him when John married? Could he be his best man and sing his praises, raise his glass and wish him well? Sherlock even wrote a song for him.

No, he could never be such a friend as Sherlock Holmes had been to him. He needed to walk away completely and let Sherlock find the happiness he deserved with Greg. No longer would it be Sherlock Holmes and John Watson side-by-side solving crimes. Greg had proven to be the better partner—the one with the heart and nerve to take that final leap that John had never managed.

His legs shaking, he stood to tell Sherlock. He opened his mouth, but before he could say a word, Sherlock took a giant step forward. His long fingers grabbed John by the front of his jumper and pulled him against his chest as the back of John's legs hit the corner of the couch. His legs buckled, but Sherlock firmly held him in place.

"No, you don't," Sherlock said, leaning into John. "You're not running away this time and neither am I." He bowed his head closer until he was a breath away from John's face. 

John  thought about how Sherlock had run off around the world without him and all he could do was throw it back in Sherlock's face by running off with Mary. They'd hurt each other so much, so many times. 

How could he hurt him again?

"But Sherlock..."

Sherlock's other hand cupped the back of John's head to prevent escape. He shook his own head. "No. I don't want to hear that you can't. You can. We can. We will."

John held perfectly still, afraid that if he moved, Sherlock might come to his senses and back away. Instead, he pulled John closer.

"Let me share something that I learned," he whispered in John's ear.

Sherlock pressed down and kissed him hard on the lips. His mouth worked against John's with a desperation and longing John tried to fight but found he couldn't help but return. He clawed at Sherlock's back, not to get away, but to climb inside the man he had wanted for so long. 

Yeah. _Greg_. He may not have taught Sherlock how to kiss, but he had taught him an essential lesson about what was behind one. A lesson that John supposed he had only just learned. _Acceptance_.All their emotions and pent-up feelings flooded them both. The best part of the lesson was that John felt for the first time that he was able to return it. It was a relief to finally let go.

Yet fear nudged inside him. Was he doing the right thing? He had decided he didn't want to pull away, and he didn't. Instead, his mouth opened in acceptance; his tongue tangled in affirmation. His heart swelled. They were truly together at last. John let himself fall back onto the couch and Sherlock followed, hand bracing the back of his neck, mouths still connected. With moans of gratitude, John hugged Sherlock to him and began to cry. The sobs may have broken their lips apart, but Sherlock continued to cup the back of John's head and held him tight.

"Don't go," Sherlock whispered. "Don't leave me."

"I won't."

In quick gasps over and over, Sherlock kissed his mouth again. Tears streaked down Sherlock's face as well.

"I have never been so happy to find out how poorly you learned to share," Sherlock said. "I thought I was rubbish at it, but you surpass even me."

"Yeah. I need to work on that. I've always been rubbish with it, even with my sister sharing mum's biscuits."

Sherlock smiled. It began as a sad little turn of the lips, but John realised he needed to change that. He took his hand from Sherlock's back and caressed his cheek with the back of his thumb. Sherlock's lips curled higher with every gentle stoke.

"I'll work on it," John said. "But it was never my intention to hurt Greg in all this."

"Nor mine. He's always been a good friend."

"I think a lot of him. I just didn't like seeing you two..."

"In bed together?"

"Yeah."

"Greg is lonely. That's all. He is fond of me, but there the attachment ends for both of us."

"That's how it begins. Are you sure there isn't more there?" John closed his eyes. He didn't want to hear the answer, yet he had to know.

"I care for Greg. But he's not you. There is truly no one for me but you. That's why I didn't want to consummate things with Greg."

John felt some relief with the last admission. "I know you might not believe it, but it's the same for me."

"I do know, John."

"I didn't want to admit it to myself."

"I know."

"I'm a right arse."

"I know that also. I am a genius."

"So Mr. Genius, how do we fix this with Greg?"

"I know how, but we'd both need to share much better than we have in the past."

"Before we do that, let's be a little greedy."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And here is the end, my friends. Enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Greg was more than nervous when Sherlock texted him early the next morning and asked him to stop by that evening. Normally, he'd already be at Sherlock's flat drinking a cuppa he'd brought up from Speedy's before going in to NSY for the day.

This had to be good news, yeah? That Sherlock wanted to see him tonight? Or would there be good news? If he and John had patched it up, wouldn't Sherlock be spending the evening with John? Greg wanted to text and ask how it had gone last night, but something inside him really didn't want to risk being disappointed yet. He didn't want to give up on them.

He went to work and got coffee on the way to NSY at Starbuck's instead. He was passing Donovan's desk when she called out to him.

"There's someone waiting for you in your office."

Part of him was eager; the other part dreaded it. If it were Sherlock waiting for him, she wouldn't have sounded so pleased. Not that things weren't much better between Sherlock and Donovan recently. Since Sherlock had been actively practicing manners, the tension between them had fallen away and a truce of sorts had been forged. Still, they weren't mates or anything. The person waiting must be John.

He opened his office door a crack to see an umbrella. His heart began to hammer in his chest. He pushed the door open to see Mycroft seated across from his desk, impeccably dressed as always. To Greg, he was one of the most dashing fellows he'd ever met. All buttoned-down perfect, back straight, with unblinking certainty in his eyes. God how he'd like to take this man apart and make him cry out his name as he...

"Good morning, Gregory," Mycroft said, standing up and offering his hand.

Greg snapped his mouth shut and took his hand. What a firm, controlled grasp. What he wouldn't do to take that control and...

"Good morning, Mycroft. To what do I owe the pleasure of this meeting?" But as the words came out, Greg suddenly knew why. _Sherlock. Last night._ _The last weeks._ Of course Mycroft knew he'd been spending an enormous amount of time with his brother. Greg felt his face flushing.

"I came to thank you."

"What?" Greg asked, thrown aback.

"For your attentions to my brother. Sherlock was heading for a long, hard fall, and I was certain I would have to intervene until you stepped in and successfully turned him around for us. You have Mummy's and my eternal gratitude, along with, it seems, Doctor Watson's."

Greg didn't mean to frown at that, but he couldn't stop himself. Mycroft had just given him the answer to how Sherlock's talk with John had gone last night. Greg should be happy about it. Wasn't that the purpose of all that he had done? To get them together? But he couldn't help feeling a bit lost that it had ended.

"I don't want to take up much of your time, but if I may extend an invitation? I have a table reserved at Beck at Brown's tomorrow evening at eight, where I thought you might like to join me."

It sounded almost like a date to Greg, but this was Mycroft Holmes. It didn't seem likely.

"Sure. That would be nice."

"Yes, it will be nice. I look forward to seeing you then. I shall send my car for you."

"A car. For me?" It did sound like a date.

"I know you will be speaking with my brother tonight. I trust you will give him your best advice about relationships. I'm sure that his relationships with you and Doctor Watson have been most instructive to him. Sherlock learns rather well from example. Perhaps you could teach his big brother as well?"

He stood and tapped his umbrella against the floor.

"Until then," he said, shaking Greg's hand again, but this time, he lifted it to his mouth and kissed it before he left.

_Ah, date then. Definitely date._

\--------------------

He was nervous as he climbed the steps of 221B. His day had been strange already and he had no idea what he was about to face. He opened the door. John Watson was in his flannel bathrobe, seated in his old chair, with Sherlock across from him sprawled out on the couch in his blue dressing gown and pajama bottoms. As per usual, no one stood up. Greg suspected things were about to get pretty strange.

"Hello, Sherlock," he said, hanging up his coat. "John."

"You had a visit from Mycroft today," Sherlock said, eyes following Greg as he slowly walked to the end of the couch to look down at Sherlock.

Greg thrust his hands into his trouser pockets for something to do, then stared up at the ceiling. "How do you do that? How could you even know that?" Greg said, half exasperated.

"He told me."

"Well," Greg said, taking one hand from his pocket and scratching the back of his neck. "I guess that would explain it."

Sherlock sat up and scooted down the couch, and, as if a string were attached between them, John stood and walked over.

"This is uncomfortable as bloody hell. Greg, come and sit down. Have some tea and biscuits." John sat at one end of the couch and Sherlock, the other. Greg took the remaining seat in between.

"Mrs. Hudson brought up chocolate cake," Sherlock added, leaning closer. "She said that cake solves everything. I'm not as certain of that as Mycroft may be, but it is good cake."

Sherlock took two plates and served Greg a slice, slathering frosting on his fingers. He handed a slice to Greg, and then served John, brushing against Greg's chest as he reached past.

Before helping himself to a piece, Sherlock gave John a heated look. The tips of those long fingers were sticky with rich frosting and crumbs of velvety, dark cake. One-by-one he stuck his fingers his mouth and licked them clean. Greg almost choked on his bite of cake, watching, while John squirmed in his seat.

He picked up his plate and began to make love to the fork with his tongue like he'd made love with it to his fingers.

"What in holy fuck are you doing?" Greg asked. That mouth. My God. He was definitely turned on. 

"Eating cake," Sherlock said, licking the tines of the fork clean.

"That's not eating cake. I've seen you eat cake plenty of times over the last few weeks, and you've never eaten it like that."

"I've learned a few new things over the last twenty-four hours."

Greg went to rock hard in a split second.

"John is such a good teacher. I have two good teachers, really. Maybe you both could instruct me further. I might even gain some needed discipline from you both."

Greg almost stood up and stormed out. Almost. But John put his hand on his thigh and held it there. Greg slowly turned his head to John. He saw a playful smile. John's gaze was steady and easy. Greg thought of John gently pulling the trigger on a gun. It looked much the same and just as hot. He could see that John was just as affected by Sherlock. There was no mistaking the heat in Sherlock's eyes or the huge bulge in John's red pants.

"We talked. We want to share this with you," John explained. "We didn't last night."

"We kissed a lot," Sherlock added. "And I sucked John's cock. It's magnificent."

Greg's mouth was open. He couldn't find words.

"Yours is quite attractive too. Would you care to show John?"

"What?" Greg's heart was beating so hard he could hear it pounding in his ears. "I think the two of you might be giving me a stroke."

"I can assure you that if so, you are in capable hands," Sherlock said.

"Oh, God."

"I think we need to move to the bedroom. As I recall, you said there wasn't enough room here for two let alone three." Sherlock long legs uncurled from beneath him, and he stretched as he stood up. John pulled his robe together as he stood.

"What am I doing?" Greg asked.

"Coming to bed with us," John said, giving Greg a hand and pulling him to his feet.

"That's what I thought."

Greg nearly stumbled as they led him to Sherlock's room. He couldn't believe this was happening with these two beautiful men. Greg had never been more conscious of the shift of his clothes on his body than at this moment. Sherlock's long, nimble fingers unbuttoned his shirt as John knelt down to unbutton and unzip his trousers. Sherlock kissed the corner of Greg's mouth as John looked up, watching, pulling Greg's trousers over his hips. Then Sherlock tilted his head and kissed him again, mouth open, one large hand reaching around Greg's back. 

With Sherlock devouring his mouth with such intensity, Greg wasn't sure what to do with his hands. Although letting them hang limply at his sides didn't seem the best he could do, he was beyond actually being able to decide.

Greg's cock strained against his white cotton pants. John found and licked the damp spot where the tip bulged beneath. Greg forced a groan into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock broke the kiss and stepped back to get a better look at John.

As Sherlock untied his dressing gown to let it drop to the floor in a puddle at his feet, Greg's own fingertips tingled with purpose.

Greg was surprised at how randy it made him to watch Sherlock, watch John. Those keen light-green eyes drifted down to Greg's hands as they finally found a place to settle. One caressed John's head and the other ran his fingers through John's sandy hair.

Then John hooked his thumbs at the top of Greg's pants and pulled.

Greg's cock remained hot and hard despite the rush of cool from the room.

HIs body thrummed as Sherlock dropped to his knees next to John on the floor. They gave Greg a grin before they attacked each other's mouths with a fever. Greg could hear the laps and licks of their open-mouthed kisses, and it made him harder by the second. Good god, they were gorgeous together.

As Greg watched transfixed, John slyly moved his hand up the inside of Greg's leg. Greg shivered as John reached the V between his legs to brush his bollocks. He gently cupped then rolled them in his hand.

Greg had a hard time tearing his eyes from the sight of their lips locked together until Sherlock surprised Greg as he reached for his own long, slender cock.

His eyes couldn't tear themselves away from the sight of Sherlock wanking himself. His hands were huge and beautiful, as though they belonged to a god rather than a mere human.

Then, with a sudden gasp, lips pulled apart. Sherlock stared at John with enough intensity to melt iron. John nodded at Sherlock in approval, then winked as the fucker stuck out his tongue and took a long swipe from the base of Greg's cock to the tip. A moment later, John joined in.

Greg's legs felt like they were rubber. If John hadn't caught him when Sherlock wrapped his lips around his cock and began to swallow, Greg would have collapsed to the floor.

"We need to take this to an actual bed," John said, helping Greg in that direction.

"Before we do that, I want you both to know that I don't expect anything else after tonight. I don't want to come between you."

"You're not. Now shut it," John said with a wink, as Sherlock slipped into bed. John spooned behind Sherlock, arms hugging him.

Greg wavered, looking to Sherlock, who gave a nod and reached out his hand to help Greg into bed. "We understand, but you _should_ expect something else from us," Sherlock said.

"It's called friendship. You'll always have that," John added.

"But it's your first time, Sherlock. It should be special."

"This is special," Sherlock said. "How could this be anything but special?"Sherlock covered John's hand with his.

"What about emotional attachments?"

"I accepted long before this that emotional attachment are not a weakness. They're strengths." He squeezed John's hand, and John squeezed back.

"Good, I'm glad we have that all straightened out," John said.

"Wait," Greg said. "What about after all this? Seeing people naked changes your perspective. I don't want us feeling uncomfortable around each other."

"I should think that having seen each other in the throes of passion would break barriers, not form them," Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow.

"When you say it like that," Greg said, looking over Sherlock's shoulder. "John, you're not saying much."

"This is a lesson for me in sharing, and it's turning out to be a delightful one."

"We've discussed this in detail," Sherlock added. "If you are amendable, John will top me, you will top John, and in between, we will explore each other thoroughly."

"Ahh...thank you," Greg said, as John leaned into him for a kiss.

Greg had snogged and been snogged a lot, but John Watson locked lips like no one else he'd ever experienced. Holy Mother, John could make him come from that wicked tongue alone. Sherlock was a lucky man. Greg's envy dissolved in bliss.

Greg noticed that Sherlock's hand had to be between his legs, wanking again. Too bad he wasn't at the right angle to see. But he could imagine, hardly difficult with Sherlock's half-closed eyes, teeth nipping at his lips as his arm moved.

Then Sherlock's broad palm reached over John and around. He found Greg's cock and held it firmly, then began stroke Greg's length in the same rhythm, flicking his wrist. God, he was wanking him in time with wanking himself. The man was going to kill him. He had to bite his own lip to keep from calling out.

He couldn't suppress it though. Greg gasped out loud as John kissed the back of his neck then put his fingers inside Greg's mouth to wet them. Yes, these two were definitely going to kill him. John's spit-covered fingers trailed down, down Greg's spine to his tailbone, then lower. God. He found his hole and was pushing lightly, testing around the edge— _there, oh, there_ , Greg thought as he let his head drop down on John's good shoulder. Between Sherlock's warm long fingers around his cock and John prodding up his arse and finding his prostate like the seasoned doctor he was, Greg recalled a few fantasies he'd had about John and those medical fingers. This was better. Greg was going to come far too soon. He stopped thrusting his hips, closed his eyes, held completely still, and thought about his ex-mother-in-law. It didn't work.

"God! Stop, I'm going to shoot."

They both let go, but instead of leaving him alone, they just changed tactics.

They started in on each other. Their mouths met and their tongues slid sensuously together, giving Greg a clear view of the licks and stabs as they devoured each other's mouths. Sherlock shifted his fingers to stretch around John's girth. With a smirk, John flipped Sherlock onto his stomach and immediately began rimming him. Somehow, a packet of lube appeared. John let the pearly white liquid drip down his fingers to be smeared against Sherlock's hole. 

"John, _yes_ ," Sherlock's deep baritone husked out.

 _Christ, this isn't helping,_ Greg thought, grasping the base of his cock in a stranglehold.

John was taking in deep gasps, looking Greg square in the eyes. "You're not the only one close. If I don't fuck him now, I'm not going to make it."

John's plea brought more moans from Sherlock. He rolled Sherlock onto his back so his cock jutted proudly at the ceiling. John's fingers, slick with lube, trailed hotly down from his bellybutton to the patch of black curls, then traced down the length of his cock to its tip.

"Not going to last. See what I mean?" John said to Greg. His head dipped down to kiss Sherlock's neck. "You're beautiful," John whispered.

"He is," Greg whispered, agreeing.

"Feel free to join in," John said, moving between Sherlock's legs. "Are you alright?" he asked Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded as John took Sherlock's left leg to drape it over his right shoulder.

"Tell me to slow down or tap me on the shoulder if you need me to stop."

"Yes, John." Sherlock tipped his hips up and Greg gave them a hand putting a pillow beneath him.

For now, Greg was content to admire the view as Sherlock's head raised to watch John enter him. He reached to touch himself but John gave him a stern look. Sherlock threw his arm up next to his head.

John eased inside. Sherlock groaned and shifted.

"Still doing fine?"

Greg saw that the head of John's cock was buried inside.

"Yes." Sherlock's voice rattled as he answered. "Don't worry. You won't hurt me."

John slowly pushed inside until he was half-seated.

"Ready for the rest then?" John asked. Sherlock sucked in his bottom lip and nodded.

"Oh yeah,” John said. "Push against me. Take what you need."

Sherlock pushed down and John was seated completely.

  
Greg crawled up closer to John and picked the tube of lube off the bed. He considered his options. Sherlock had said, "top John" hadn't he? No one had mentioned just when he was to do that, and he wasn't going to be able to keep from coming if he watched them much longer. He unsnapped the top and squirted the liquid into his hand, and positioned himself behind John.

Greg spread the cheek's of John's bum, admiring that he had a nice, round one. He was moving his hips slowly, and Greg brushed his slickened thumb over John's pucker, then blew on it. As John pushed inside Sherlock, rocking into him harder, Greg's finger slipped inside. He mimicked what John had done to Sherlock.

"Fuck!" John shouted.

"Is that an invitation?" Greg asked.

"Yes," John growled back.  
John hands skimmed over Sherlock's sweat-slick skin, fingertips carressing every subtle dip and ridge of his hips and chest and shoulders. Greg entered John slowly, as John braced his weight on his arms, grabbing Sherlock's hands beside his head and holding them both in place.

"Bloody hell, this is incredible," John gasped.

  
Greg couldn't believe how fucking beautiful it was. He began to thrust slowly.

"Not at the same time!" Sherlock choked out. "It should be syncopated. Ta-a, da. Ta-a, da. Oh, god yes. You have it. There, John, there. Greg, oh, Greg."

Greg had never had a threesome, never really had wanted one, to tell the truth. But Sherlock was right. This was special.

Greg let his lips drag against the back of John's neck, his stubble making goose-bumps appear on his nape. His own hands gripped John's hips. 

"Can you come like this?" Greg asked.

  
"Yes," chimed Sherlock and John together.

"I'll make sure." Greg reached down between their slippery bellies, closing his fist around Sherlock's cock and beginning to stroke it in time with his own thrusts.  
  
Sherlock stilled, but only for an instant, then a gust of breath released from inside him. In answer, John found the rhythm again and rocked into him, gripping their hands tighter with each push.

Sherlock's breathing roughened at the break and fall of two sets of hips.  
  
"I can feel you both," John said, wonder in his voice.  
  
"I'm close. Close."  
  
"I am too." God, John was actually getting tighter, Greg marveled.

  
They all let go at once. John couldn't hold them up any longer, and collapsed. Greg felt Sherlock's warm come spurt over his hand, now trapped between them. He felt his own orgasm as he jerked inside John.

All arms and legs all over the bed, the three satisfied men lay amidst the untucked sheets.

"You're both crushing me."

Greg rolled off to the left of Sherlock and John to the right. All three stared at the ceiling, chests still heaving.

"My arse is going to be sore for weeks," John grumbled.

"Something to remember him by," Sherlock gested. "Best to be prepared since I plan to be next."

"Like I'll ever forget this," Greg said, the words hard to get out between gasps. "Ever."  
  
After all their breathing was almost back to normal, Greg cleared his throat. "I still haven't heard it," Greg announced.

"Heard what?" John asked.

"Those three words we all long to hear. Have either of you manned up and said them yet?" The deafening silence that followed was Greg's answer. "I'm still not hearing it!"

Like a landslide, Sherlock rolled on top John. His mouth covered John's, and his arms wrapped tight around Sherlock, holding him in place. The moment was fragile, precious. Every inch of their skin glowed. Greg could just spy Sherlock's face. The eyes. Always those eyes. They had tears in the corners. He looked at John with such devotion and promise.

"I love you, John. I have for so long, and I always will."

"Sherlock, I love you. God knows I don't deserve you, after—" Sherlock covered his mouth again, kissing him relentlessly until he gave up trying to speak.

Sherlock slipped off John and aside, leaving John now wedged in the middle.

"I do have a lot to atone for," John said. "But I'll do it if it takes a lifetime. I'll do it."

"A lifetime? Perfect." Sherlock smiled and his legs vibrated on the bed. "Yes! I'll call the movers tomorrow. We can make a nursery out of your old room."

Greg couldn't keep from laughing at John's expression—part delight and part apprehension.

Sherlock saw it too. "You are. You must. Move back in that is."

"Of course I will, you bloody genius."

"Now that you two have that all settled, I need to thank you."

"I thought that was what we just did," John laughed. "But seriously, Greg. If you hadn't pushed me, we might not all be here right now. I really owe you, Greg."

"Any time."

"How does one sleep after a bout of sex such as that," Sherlock said. "I'm wide awake."

"You're always wide awake. We've noticed that," Greg said.

"I was hoping sex might be the cure. We could give him another orgasm. That might work," John suggested.

"I'll leave that to you. I'm going home. I'm utterly knackered after all that."

"We'd like you to stay the night," Sherlock said.

"I don't know if my heart could take that again, but yeah, I'll stay the night, so long as it's for nothing but sleep."

Greg didn't want to leave: he had to admit to himself that he was feeling a bit fragile at the moment. He was pretty sure this was going to be a one time thing, especially if things worked out as he hoped tomorrow night, but it would be hard to leave these two enticing men behind.

Tomorrow night? Bloody hell, he'd almost forgotten tomorrow night. There's no way Mycroft wouldn't know about....this.

He'd worry about that later. After Sherlock's next orgasm. John was working on that right now. He'd just watch. Well, maybe help. A little.

\----------------------------------------

Epilogue

"I think the apocalypse is upon us," Sherlock proclaimed, waving his arms as he raced in a swirl of coattails into Lestrade's office. John followed him more slowly, and turned to shut the office door. He'd told Sherlock that Greg didn't need to hear him rant again today, but it was more than he could manage, stopping Sherlock when he was this agitated. And for the life of him, John couldn't figure out what had him so wound up.

Sherlock threw himself into the chair with such force that it banged against the wall.

"What's wrong now?" Greg asked, folding his hands and setting them on his desk. He'd gotten used to Sherlock's drama. It's a pattern that had been regular since their friendship had deepened months ago. He looked up at John. He shrugged and shook his head.

"Mycroft! I think he's... _dating_!" Sherlock leapt to his feet to lean dramatically over Greg's desk. "I know it seems ludicrous, but the signs are all there."

"And that's a bad thing how?" Greg asked.

"Not a bad thing, an impossible thing. My brother never dates. Never."

"But you just said he did. Date."

"Yes. The time has come to prepare. The end of the world is near. He would never date unless it were the end of all things."

John wasn't surprised by much any more, but what Greg did next surprised John. He laughed. And it wasn't a chuckle or a bark. He began to shake inside with it, then it tore out of him like a hyena at the zoo. He couldn't stop. He couldn't even try. He pounded his desk with his fists, tears streamed down his face, snot ran out of his nose, and he kept whooping frantically for air. Sherlock stood agast, watching him, and threw his handkerchief across the desk in the direction of Greg's face.

Finally the outburst diminished to intermittent spasms of laughter. Greg wiped his face.

"I wondered how long it would take you to find out."

"But he said _caring is not an advantage_ ," Sherlock whispered.

Sherlock began to blink rapidly, accessing his memories or the rooms in his mind palace—John was never sure.

"But he does care. He cares about you for one thing. And for another..."

"NO!" Sherlock shouted and jumped up. He began to pace back and forth in front of Greg's desk.

"Yes, Sherlock, I can assure you, the answer is yes," Greg said.

"Is someone going to tell me what's going on here?" John asked.

"I can't even say it," Sherlock said, spinning around, his arms flung in the air, before ducking down to grab his knees with his head tucked between them. His hands covered his face. "One doesn't speak such blasphemies aloud."

"I'm dating Mycroft, John. We've been dating for over two months."

"Why, that's wonderful! You always were attracted to him and I never thought it would amount to anything. That's wonderful, isn't it, Sherlock?" John nudged Sherlock's shoulder. "Sherlock? Tell Greg that's wonderful."

Sherlock slowly lifted his head and peeked through his fingers. "That's horrible, Greg."

John smiled. Well, even being willing to say anything was a start.

"Let's go, Sherlock," John said, taking hold of the back of Sherlock's coat and boosting him to his feet. He looked up at Greg, who was still staring at Sherlock from behind his desk. "And we really are happy for you both."

"No, we're not," Sherlock grumbled. As John pulled him out the door he uncovered one eye.

"Yes, we are. Sharing? Remember." The door shut behind them as John continued to lead Sherlock out of the rows of offices and into the elevator.

"I never share with my brother," he said as the elevator door closed.

"Yes, you will. And you will be happy about it. Think about it. A kinder, gentler Mycroft."

"John! The Yard will be most unhappy with you if you make me vomit in their elevator."

"True."

"It's not happening." John brushed past Sherlock's folded arms as the door opened. "Why Greg? Why not anyone else but Greg?"

They both walked toward the front entrance.

"You don't see it? It had to be Greg. No one else. He's a bit like me."

"Stop! He's nothing like you."

"Oh, yes he is. Mycroft has always had feelings for Greg, but he denied them. It's not an advantage. But life changed for all of us with Mary and Eurus. What really turned it around, though, was you dating Greg. We both saw how close you two became, but Mycroft was concerned because Greg was doing it to get to me. But then Greg became seriously interested in you. Mycroft realized that, and he didn't know how to handle it. Why? Because he cared."

They were out on the street and Sherlock was hailing a cab. London buzzed around them.

"Do you see this?" Sherlock threw his arms wide and twirled around. His Belstaff flapped about him like a cape. "Cabs aren't stopping for me. Cabs always stop for me. I was right. The apocalypse is upon us!"

"They don't always stop for you, drama queen. Let's walk for awhile. You need to burn off some of that energy anyway."

Sherlock stomped up and down a few times before he gave a long, dramatic sigh. He turned and followed John. He took long, effortless strides until he'd caught up to walk in step beside him.

"You've said it before," John said, eyes trained forward. "Mycroft sees everything. He felt the same things I did seeing you two together: jealousy, sadness, regret. How could someone that intelligent miss the parallels between our situation and his and Greg's? It took all of us being together to finally get his pompous head out of his arse."

"When you explain it like that I begin to understand, but why did it have to be Greg?"

"You know why. You've experienced him firsthand. The man has a way of reaching out and touching a person, taking them under his wing and showing them what's missing in life. He sets a person to right. He did it for you more than once. He helped me, Sally, even Anderson. Of course, you can't change someone who really doesn't want to change. You wanted to and so you did it. I wanted to and will, and so, evidently, does your brother."

"Yes. We'll see." Sherlock eyed a vendor's wares at the street market and picked up a pair of leather gloves. "Knock-offs. Very good ones, but knock-offs." He slapped the gloves back on the table.

"We will, and until then, well... I'm sorry for everything. What I've put you through."

"And I am sorry as well." Sherlock grabbed John's jacket and spun him around.

"What's wrong?" John said, searching Sherlock's face.

"Nothing. Nothing any more."

Horns honked. The vendor yelled at Sherlock to buy the gloves. Time stopped. Sherlock pressed his forehead to John's, and they kissed. When they opened their eyes minutes later, it was to walk away, hand in hard, through the streets of London and into their life together. As it should be.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on Tumblr: [**elwinglyre Tumblr**](https://elwinglyre.tumblr.com/)!


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